


grow as we go

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Grief, this is pure angst okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: When Damian had returned, he had never felt more alone than when he realized he would grieve Richard by himself.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 88
Collections: DickAndDamiWeek2021





	grow as we go

**Author's Note:**

> For Dick & Damian Week 2021, day 3: adoption papers (believe it or not)  
> Title inspired by "Grow as we Go" by Ben Platt, which is a beautiful soft song that I listened to too often when I lost some loved ones. I wrote the first half of this years ago when I was still processing it all
> 
> Warnings: this fic is grief-sad, which is one step away from depression-sad, so take care of yourselves <3

Grief is a lingering thing.

Damian discovered it when the weather changed.

He slid out of bed the same way he did every morning. The old Manor let in a draft that brought Gotham’s chill with it, and Damian didn’t know why his chest ached.

He ignored the feeling all the way downstairs, and then down more stairs, until he reached the Cave and his feet stilled. They were heavy; sandbags attached to the bottom of his legs.

He stared at the glass case.

He hadn’t looked at it in months. Not since the last time, when he had sobbed himself sick leaning against the memorial, the glass cold and hard against his hot face.

It was so, so far from the embrace he had wanted.

Still, it was the best he had had.

And, still, it was the best he _had_.

He trudged to the case’s side. Sat. It felt good to be low to the ground. He felt heavy.

He leaned his head to the side, against the glass.

He had thought this was behind him.

Everybody else had already mourned. They were done; it was a trauma processed and dealt with.

Damian didn’t know the date of his death. He missed the public service, and the private service, and the burial after. He missed the nights huddled around steaming mugs in the kitchen, sharing silence and the weight of the sun blinking out of existence. He missed the weekend they spent cleaning up Richard’s apartment, packing away his cherished photographs and trivial doodles and timeworn clothing.

And when Damian had returned, he had never felt more alone than when he realized he would grieve Richard by himself.

Richard liked autumn.

 _Had_ liked autumn.

Damian shut his eyes, but it didn’t stop the memory of an autumn afternoon, taking a much younger Titus on a walk. Leaves had crunched under their feet – Richard had gone out of his way to stomp on several of them. He had probably worn one of his baggy sweaters, knit with colorful patterns and stretched at the elbows from use. He had let Damian borrow one that morning, and though it dwarfed him, even with the sleeves rolled back three times, Damian had loved it. He had loved the entire experience, through the idle chatter, the vibrant multicolored scenery, and the homey smell of dirt and leaves and Richard’s shampoo. It had been the first time he had really, truly, felt like he was at home in Gotham.

He hadn’t told Richard any of that.

He wouldn’t get to.

“Damian?”

Damian summed up the energy to wipe the tear tracks from his face. He didn’t look up, even though his skin prickled with the weight of Timothy’s unreadable gaze. He didn’t respond, just dragged himself to his feet to begin his morning workout. He was already behind, and he cared just enough for it to bother him.

Routine. He needed his routine.

A hand caught his shoulder on his way to the mats. “Wait.” The word was quiet, almost whispered into the cool cave air.

“I am behind already.”

The fingers on his shoulder flexed, and relaxed, and fell away completely. “Okay.”

After his workout and the shower that always followed, Damian found himself without purpose. He roamed the dark, chilly manor halls, reluctant to return to his room and the loneliness that necessarily followed.

The library door was open, the curtains drawn back to let the wan sun make the dark, cracked leather of the couch glisten. It was more inviting than his own room, at least.

Richard had not been a frequent visitor to the manor’s bookshelves. He had been too busy between his caseload, his day job, and trying to take care of Damian. (Damian knew he had not made it easy for him.) But Richard’s own peculiarities barred him from taking up Bruce’s study after Damian’s father had passed, and the library was the only other room in the vast home that housed a decent desk.

Damian found himself drawn to the room, wishing to see the familiar silhouette of his older brother in the window, or the familiar head of hair peeking over the couch’s arm as he dozed in the midmorning glow.

Except for himself, the room was empty.

Damian floated around the shelves, pretending he wasn’t disappointed that the room felt so hollow. Gone were the sticky notes, the empty mugs of coffee, and the faint smell of Richard’s cologne. The room was perfectly clean. Barren.

His eyes caught on the well-worn spine of a familiar book. _The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_. It had been Richard’s favorite, when he was a boy. Despite his cajoling, Damian had never been interested in reading it. (He had called it drivel. What he would give to take back those words, to take the opportunity to spend more time with him now.)

Damian ran his hands over the soft leather, faded by the sun. He could read it now. Reclaim that piece of affection he had dismissed so easily before.

Mind made up, he tugged the book from the shelf.

Something fluttered down to his feet.

Damian watched it, confused at first by the folded papers. They were not yet yellowed with age, like the pages of the book were, but they were creased in a practiced way, the way that only came from unfolding and refolding a document over and over again.

He stooped to pick up the small packet. Flipped it over.

_“To Damian”_

It was Richard’s handwriting. Nicer than that he had used for his notes and scribbles, more genuine than the style he had adopted for his signature. Damian traced the words, unable to move past them.

To Damian.

This was something for him.

He held the packet in his hands reverently, clinging to the last gift his brother would ever give him. Hands trembling slightly, Damian slid one finger into the packet to unfurl the papers along the first crease, then the second.

It was a note.

_Damian,_

_I know I’m not what you expected when you came to Gotham. I’m not Bruce in any of the ways that matter. (You’ve told me.) But you’ve grown so much since the first time I met you, and I know I can’t take credit for it, but I can be proud._

_When Bruce took me in, he promised me he wouldn’t try to replace my parents. I can’t replace your dad, but I have learned through experience that there’s always room for more family, even if it’s a little unconventional. You’re my family now, and nothing you do, no decision you make, can ever change that._

A fat tear smeared the ink on a few words. Damian sniffed and tried to wipe his face with his shoulder to prevent further damage. His shirt was quickly soaked through. He held his breath, trying to quiet the sobs that bobbed in the back of his throat.

Through watery eyes, he scanned the last lines of the note.

_I’m so proud of the person you are, and I would be honored to meet the person you're becoming, every step of the way._

_\- Dick (_ _Richard, in case you didn't know)_

Damian sank into a crouch, and from there back until he was propped against the bookshelf. The uneven spines of books dug into his back, providing points of pressure against his uncontrollable hitched breathing.

He was sick of crying, but there was something different about this. The tears helped. The gasps and sobs hurt, but they snapped some of the tight bands around his chest. Even as he scrubbed at his running nose, he realized that his throat was finally clear.

He gently set the pages on the floor to hug himself.

 _“You're my family now, and nothing could ever change that.”_ He repeated the sacred words like a mantra, uncaring who may overhear.

When he finally got himself under control, he felt lighter than he had in weeks. Wiping away the last of the water clinging to his lashes, he picked up the packet and flipped to the next page.

At first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at. But as the realization set in, he bit down on the palm of his hand, using the feeling to ground him in the sudden, unexpected glow of peace.

They were adoption papers. Dated for a week before his father’s return, so long ago. Richard had already signed. And over Damian’s empty signature box was a yellowing sticky note:

“ _Only if you want to. This doesn’t change anything._

_“I love you.”_


End file.
